


The Changeling Children

by jay (tofupofu)



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Autism, Bullying, Canonical Child Abuse, Child Abuse, F/M, Fluff, Georgie Denbrough Lives, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, More tags later, Multi, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Poly Losers - Freeform, Polyamory, The power of friendship, They're All Autistic, and i said fuck the timeline of the books and movies, really self indulgent if i'm being honest, the author is working through trauma and it's really obvious lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-11-07 22:10:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20824625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofupofu/pseuds/jay
Summary: Changeling: A creature in European folklore characterized as a magical being, usually a fairy child, brought to the human world to replace a normal human child, which was stolen away. This was used mainly to explain the existence of disabled children.Eight children feel like they've never belonged in Derry, Maine. When one loses his arm in a vicious--and mysterious--attack, the others band together to stop it from happening to them ever again.





	1. the stutter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [glitchingscript](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitchingscript/gifts).

> i'd just like to say, first of all, that this is the first thing i've posted in a while and i'm trying to start just publishing again. this one goes out to my wonderful (autistic) partner ky, who you can and should find at @geminijanine on tumblr.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bill denbrough doesn't like to talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for this chapter include abusive ABA-style therapy, georgie's "sewer incident", and like just general shitty parenting?

Bill hated his speech therapist. He hated every single second of therapy and he hated every single second he had to talk.

“Say  _ thermostat _ .” He was prompted. He glowered at the woman who held up a cartoon picture of a thermostat with the word printed on it in big, blocky letters.

“Th-th-ther-thermostat,” Bill said, the words echoing through his brain painfully.  _ Thermostat why can’t I just talk like a normal fucking person thermostat thermostat it’s so loud thermostat fuck! thermostat.  _

“Very good!” Jean praised, giving Bill a sticker to put on a chart. Bill did like stickers, he liked they way you could fill a page with them. He liked the feeling of doing right.

“Now, say  _ double knot _ .”

“D-d-d-dou-doub-double...” Bill started, feeling his own voice fill his head again. It rattled and echoed around in his brain and he’d been doing this for  _ hours _ and all the words he’d been made to say all found their way into the nooks and crannies of his mind, endless and  _ loud _ and painful and completely meaningless. Bill clasped his hands to his ears and rocked back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, trying to shake the sounds from his head. His eyes were closed tight, his face was twisting together, there was something pulling at his arms, pulling them down from his ears, holding his arms at his sides.

Bill freaked out. He screamed, eyes flying open to see Jean staring at him, clearly disappointed. He kicked out at Jean, scrambling over to the corner, hyperventilating.

“It’s been weeks since your last meltdown,” She  _ tsked _ , writing something down on her board, “You know how bad a setback like this is.”

Hot shame filled Bill’s body. His chin wrinkled and he tried not to cry. Slowly, he walked back to his seat and he mostly succeeded in not crying. “S-s-s-s-or-sorry.”

Jean shook her head, “You’re better than this, William. You’re a bright kid, and you’ve been doing so well! Here, why don’t we try again?”

There was nothing Bill wanted to do less on the entire planet than to try to say  _ double knot _ again. “D-d-d-oub-double…”  _ breath _ , “Kn-kn-ot.”

“Good. Again.”

“Do-doub-double kn-kn-knot.”

“Good! See, you just need to focus.”

  
  
  
  


Hours later and Bill just wanted to go home. The car was too loud for him to hear what his mom was saying, and Georgie was throwing a fit from the backseat. As soon as he got home, Bill raced up to his room and threw himself into bed, hiding under his covers and sulking.

“Hey, kiddo,” Bill’s dad walked slowly into the room, sitting down at the end of his bed. “Heard you had a rough day at therapy.”

Bill didn’t respond. His dad placed a hand on Bill’s leg, he flinched, Bill’s dad took his hand off Bill’s leg.

“Sorry,” He apologized, hands quietly settling back in his lap, “You know, we’re doing this for your own good. We just want you to have the best shot in life.”

Bill grunted from under his blanket.

“You’re a good kid,” His dad sighed, “I love you.”

Bill felt his dad get up and walk back out of the room. His body relaxed in the predictable noise of his room. The whir of the fan, the hum of the AC. Georgie wouldn’t go to bed for a few hours--he hated bath time and it would take a while for him to calm down again. Bill tried to drift off, but his feet wouldn’t stop moving. He kicked his shoes off, he pulled his socks off with his hands, and his feet pressed into the bed, released, pressed, released. It felt good, natural, it felt like he was scratching an itch he’d been ignoring all day. He rolled himself up in the blanket as tight as he could.

He felt as though his body wouldn’t turn off, and yet, he slept anyway.

This was the rhythm of life, Bill thought. School, therapy, sleep, school, therapy, sleep. He read comics when he could, and he filled journal after journal after journal, but he never did feel energized. He always felt like he was drawing water from the bottom of the well, the mossy, mosquito-infested stillwater for everything. He’d been going to therapy for as long as he could remember, and he wasn’t cured. He’d only ever had one friend, and as much as he loved Stan, he felt so lonely. Stan was like him, Stan was in all of his classes, but they never saw each other outside of school. Bill thought Stan might be lonely too, but Bill had therapy. Bill had Georgie, too, and Bill knew that they were the most he could ever hope for.

  
  
  
  


Bill went to school exhausted. He was in every class with Stanley Uris, a neat-and-tidy kid who always had a bird-watching guide with him. And a sketchbook, and a pencil bag full of stationary, and whatever random project he was working on. His pencil scratch-scratch-scratched on the paper, the sound tickling the back of Bill’s brain. He wrote his notes diligently, not bothering to look over at Stan’s sketch until the end of class. When he did, he saw himself, rendered in perfect detail, and Stan’s mouth twitched downward in a frown.

“It-it-it’s b-b-b-beau-beautiful,” Bill said, flashing Stan a smile. Stan looked back, forcing a smile onto his own face. It looked plastic. 

Ten seconds later, Stan muttered, “Thank you.” Bill knew it was ten seconds because Stan’s watch made a tick-tick-tick sound that Bill didn’t know he was counting.

Bill’s heart felt strange. It felt light. Stan turned back to his own notes, handwriting perfect. Bill’s own was scratchy and rushed, illegible to anyone who hadn’t spent ages looking at it. When it wasn’t full of noise, Bill’s mind worked so fast. He had colors exploding from his brain and when he put it down on paper it all  _ worked _ . It made him feel like he wasn’t so useless to write. So he wrote every minute of his spare time.

The English teacher dismissed them, and Bill and Stan walked in silence to Pre-Calculus. Mr. Smith was… less accommodating than their English teacher.

“Stanley, put your book away. Pay attention.” He demanded, “Miss Corcoran, please come up to the board and explain to us how you got the answer to example five.”

Bill dreaded being asked to do problems. He hated it. He hated the condescension, the way people stared at him. He hated the way Mr. Smith would ask him  _ Could you show us how you did that _ \--like Bill hadn’t already shown him.

“Mister Denbrough, please come up and do example six on the board for us.” Bill’s heart sank. He knew it was coming--it happened every day. 

Bill marched up to the board and wrote the problem. “Ex-ex-examp-example s-s-s-six, f-f-f-find-find the l-l-local ex-ex-extrema o-o-of t-t-he fun-fun-function.”

It was grueling, writing and talking and writing and the  _ stares _ . Bill felt every eye on his back.

“That’s great, Bill,” Mr. Smith said, “Could you show us how you found the intercepts?”

“I-I-I d-d-did,” Bill replied, to which Mr. Smith shook his head.

“No, you have to plug in zero for all the x-variables,” Mr. Smith took the chalk out of Bill’s hand, writing next to Bill’s work, explaining everything Bill didn’t. Bill just saw him rewrite all of his work.

_ I already did that _ , Bill thought, walking back to his seat with his hands balled in his pockets. He tapped his fingers on his desk, waiting for the bell to ring, mortified.

  
  
  
  


Bill made the boat with love, carefully folding the paper over and brushing the wax onto it so it was all even. He gave it to Georgie, who smiled to Bill and flapped his hands.

“Thanks!” He squeaked, racing out into the street in his yellow raincoat. Bill flopped down in his bed, pen to paper. The scratch-scratch-scratch of his fountain pen gave him that same feeling of  _ right _ . He wrote, this time, about a boy who made a giant paper boat and sailed away to a land where the people didn’t talk, tapping on the ground with wooden staffs to communicate. 

  
  
  
  


Ambulance sirens were so loud. Bill clinged to his mother’s side in the ambulance, looking at Georgie’s shoulder. He wasn’t screaming. The arm… it just ended. There should have been more of it. His blood drip-drip-drip-dripped on the ground and Bill watched it, transfixed. His family was accosted to the waiting room when they wheeled his little brother into the OR. Bill folded his hands across his lap and watched the floor.

He looked up when he heard a commotion.

“I’m  _ fine _ , mommy!” A boy about Bill’s age shouted, “I’m okay--”

“No, you’re not!” A towering woman spoke, turning to the wider waiting room, “I’m so sorry, he has autism. You’ll have to excuse us.”

A few people muttered their condolences. Bill frowned, watching the diminutive boy struggle against his mother’s grip, devolving into a fit. He twisted and thrashed. A part of Bill felt bad for him, but all he could really see was Georgie. Nobody knew what had happened, just that there was an old woman who called the police and held Georgie still and pressed a tourniquet to his arm and saved his life. The wound looked like nothing anybody had ever seen.

Eventually, the woman and her son had sat down next to Bill and his family. The small boy looked at Bill, almost through him. His eyes were wide and deep.

“What’s your name?” He asked.

“B-b-b-Bill.”

“Eddie, that’s quite enough, you know people don’t like to talk at the hospital--”

“I-I-I-I d-d-d-on’t-don’t mind.” Bill said shortly.

“I’m Eddie!” Eddie smiled. His hands were clasped together, fingers rubbing against each other. “I’m here for Occupational Therapy. That’s where I tie my shoes and touch my fingers together!”

“He doesn’t care.” Eddie’s mother interrupted.

“I-I-I-I don’t mind,” Bill repeated, “Y-y-y-you see-see-seem c-c-cool.”

Eddie looked at Bill, enraptured. “Your voice is amazing.”

“Eddie-bear, don’t be weird,” Eddie’s mom chided. Bill shot Eddie his best apologetic look. Eddie took a notebook out of his backpack and scribbled a note onto it, passing it to Bill.

_ 1089 Wisdom Ln. 899-246-7892 _

Bill smiled.

  
  
  
  


They let him see Georgie four hours later. He was fast asleep. Bill’s eyes were fixed on Georgie’s hand. His bandages were blood-soaked.

“We-we don’t know what happened,” Bill’s mom said to the doctor, shuddering, sobbing, “The bill for this…”

“We can help you pay in installments,” The doctor said, sitting across from Bill’s parents. Bill almost laughed--it was like they were in speech therapy. Bill’s dad gave his mom a  _ look _ .

  
  
  
  


Georgie’s accident was on Monday. Bill’s whole family, including him, stayed Tuesday. Wednesday, Bill’s dad took him to school.

“Have a good day, bud!” Bill’s dad said. Bill smiled back at him.

Bill’s dad called after him as he got out of the car, “What, no ‘you too’?”

“Y-y-y-y-you t-t-too-too.” Bill stumbled over his words, putting on his backpack and walking into the building.

Bill waited for someone to pick him up with Stan. He waited for ten minutes. Nothing. Twenty. Nothing. Stan’s mom came and went. Bill stood up, ready to walk home.

“Wait!” Someone cried, running up to Bill. It was the kid from the hospital, eyes bright. He was wearing a pink polo shirt and khakis.

“E-E-E-Eddie?” Bill said, only mostly sure that was his name.

Eddie jumped, sprinting closer. “You remembered my name?”

Eddie rocked on his toes when he finally slowed to a stop next to Bill. “How’s it going, man? Want some gum? I’ve got some, uh--” Eddie rifled through a fanny pack, past all sorts of knick-knacks. Bill wasn’t sure how he fit everything in there.

“Well, I lied, I don’t have gum. I do have pens, though,” Eddie grinned, “Why were you in the hospital yesterday?”

“M-m-m-m-my br-br-bro-brother,” Bill said. He wanted to say more.

Eddie nodded sagely. “I don’t have a brother.”

A station wagon pulled up with Eddie’s mother in it. “Eddie-bear, are you bothering that poor boy?”

“Sorry,” Eddie muttered, “I don’t… I don’t really have the best social skills--”

“It-it-it-it’s o-o-kay,” Bill said.

Eddie shifted on his feet again, noticeably still. “Do you need a ride?”

Bill nodded, avoiding Eddie’s gaze. “Mommy, can we drive my friend to his house?”

_ His house? Right after school? _ Bill hadn’t gone right home after school in forever.

“Fine,” Eddie’s mom sighed, “Make it quick.”

The boys filed into Eddie’s mom’s car. “Where do you live?”

“O-o-o-off G-G-G-G-Gree-Green St-st-street.” Bill felt panic start to rise in his chest. Eddie’s mom nodded, driving off in the general direction way too fast. Bill’s breathing sped up. He needed to be going to therapy. He hated therapy, why did he need it? Why were his fingers clutching the loose fabric of his jacket so hard they were turning white?

“It-it-it-it-s--”

“My God, just spit it out, boy!” Eddie’s mom snapped. Bill took a deep breath.

“It-it-it’s u-u-u-p he-he-here.” He tried again. She stopped at his house.

“Th-th-th-th--”

“Get out.”

“O-oh.”

Bill sat in his house. It was empty. He eyed the phone. Then, he thought better of it. Nobody wanted to talk to him and he didn’t want to talk to anybody. He made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and opened a book and sat on the couch in total silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't really promise any sort of uploading schedule (i'm a junior in high school and i'm taking 2 college classes and 1 AP class) but i would love love love if you guys could tell me if you liked this!


	2. the freak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> beverly marsh sits perfectly still

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for this chapter include child sexual abuse (not graphic) and the r slur.

Beverly Marsh sat perfectly still. There was nothing that felt worse than her father’s vulturous eyes on her, but she did not move a muscle. Her whole body wanted to dance, wanted to shake, wanted to sing, but she reached forward slowly and ate her microwave dinner with steady hands.

“How was school, Bevvy?” Her father asked.

_ Didn’t go.  _ “Fine.”

“Look me in the eye when I ask you a question.” Beverly looked her father in the eye and all his words flew past her ears. His eyes were cold and grey and his face was hardened and made her think of stone and his button-up had stains on it and--

“Beverly Anne Marsh!” Her father’s hands slammed on the table. She jumped. “Answer me! Why did they mark you absent today?”

_ Oh. _ “I-I don’t know. It was a mistake.”

“Don’t lie to me!” Al roared, suddenly losing all the fire in his eyes, “You know I worry about you. You’re not going to be living in my basement forever, are you?”

Beverly shivered. She hoped she wouldn’t, but her dad made her feel like… like she needed to stay. “No, daddy.”

“Good. You know I love you, right? I just want the best for you.”

“I know.”

“That’s my girl.”

  
  
  
  


Beverly couldn’t sleep. Her body was itching to do something but she could hear her father rummaging around for a midnight drink and she was supposed to be sleeping. Slowly, she took out a book from her nightstand, as well as a flashlight, and hid under the covers to read. She could read for  _ hours _ .

In fact, by the time she put the book back down, the sun was rising. She blinked slowly--her bed was so comfortable and warm, and it would be so easy to draw back the curtains and roll over and sleep. But she couldn’t. She got up slowly, making her bed and replacing the flashlight and book in her nightstand. She got dressed, brushed her teeth, and hopped on her bike. She wanted to be anywhere but school, but she remembered her father’s words last night. The school must be calling him.

She went to Derry High, a bland, seemingly-endless building that drew students from the neighboring towns as well as Derry itself. Beverly plugged her headphones into her walkman, turning the volume all the way up. She’d take the hearing damage over the sound of a thousand chattering voices any day.

Her Chemistry class had windows like a prison. She arrived just barely on time, the last person in the room.

“Miss Marsh, how nice of you to join us,” The teacher, Mr. Vermont, said, “Take a seat next to Mister Tozier over there, will you?” Beverly sat next to a pale kid with flyaway black hair. He was wearing some sort of jean jacket, but it was covered in patches and stains and buttons, so Beverly couldn’t really tell what color it was. Underneath it, he wore some sort of band t-shirt and jeans that had been nearly ripped to shreds.

He was covered in bruises. Not that Beverly could judge, but it did raise some eyebrows.

“Richie Tozier, pleased to make your acquaintance,” He announced, loud enough for the whole class to hear, sticking his hand out and waiting for Beverly to shake it.

Beverly gingerly took his hand, shaking it once and promptly dropping it. Her palm burned. She hated touching people.

She tried to listen to the rest of the lesson, she really did. But Richie’s legs were bouncing and his fingers were twirling his pen and his other hand was tapping on his face. Beverly watched his skinny wrists move back and forth and back and forth nonstop and she felt a twinge of  _ something _ . She decided it was embarrassment.

_ Jealousy _ , her brain supplied unhelpfully. Of all the times she had forgotten a word when she needed it, now she wanted to forget words altogether. She wasn’t  _ jealous _ of Richie--he wasn’t quiet like she was. She was good, she didn’t act out. She could sit through a fucking Chemistry class without making a dick joke.

Beverly stalked away from Richie, and away from Chemistry, and towards art class.

“Are you okay, Beverly?” Her art teacher, Mrs. Keene, asked. Beverly shouldered her way into class, sitting down in a seat, and burying her head in her arms. The person next to her made a surprised noise. She glanced up to see a boy in an immaculate shirt, with flyaway hair and a pocket protector. He looked a little affronted, and Beverly, mortified, looked to her right to see another boy just having returned from filling up cups with water, waiting for his seat. 

“I-I-I’m sorry,” Beverly said, face crumbling. She sobbed and the boy, blushing furiously, sat down, sandwiching her between both of them. Beverly wiped at her eyes. The boy reached out, slowly.

“I-I-I-I-I--”

“He’s Bill,” The boy on the other side of Beverly spoke up, “And I’m Stan. You’re in Bill’s seat.”

“It-it-it-it-it’s f-f-f-fine,” Bill’s hand made contact with Beverly’s arm. It burned warm and  _ different _ . It wasn’t her dad’s hand. But it felt close enough. Beverly jumped up and raced out of the room.

“Going to the bathroom,” She murmured to Mrs. Keene, “Period stuff.”

She ran all the way to the bathroom, collapsing onto a seat and trying her best to cry silently. As soon as she could breathe again, she took a cig out of her backpack and lit it. Her hands shook as she brought it up to her face. Her arm burned. She held back a cough from the smoke and blew out, unfocusing her eyes and watching the world go fuzzy. It was quiet. It was peaceful.

Her lungs burned now, too, and she leaned into the feeling. The light filtered in through some windows, without the harsh buzz of the fluorescents. Beverly sighed, leaning back against the wall.

The door opened.

“Uh oh,” Someone sneered, “There’s a fucking retard in here.”

One of Bowers’ cronies, a lanky light-haired boy who usually was just there when Bowers was committing some atrocity, walked into the bathroom. Beverly knew his voice. She knew his converse.

“Oh, are they hazing you?” Beverly snapped, taking a long drag off her cigarette and putting it out. She knew better than to work people up, but her skin was burning, it was falling off, and her voice sounded like lions.

“Fucking freak, I’ll fucking kill you!” He slammed his hands on the door, and Beverly heard metal scraping against metal.

“You’re a bitch,” Beverly spat, “You made me put out my cigarette!”

Before he could finish undoing the lock, Beverly did it herself and punched him in the face. Her fist connected right against his mouth, and she pulled her hand back to see that it was bleeding where it had caught on his teeth.

“You’ll pay for that,” He snarled, and before Beverly could react his face was contorting and twisting and it looked less like a face and more like a tilt-a-whirl and  _ teeth _ grew from the center of his face and his fingers, having grown twice as long, came up to caress Beverly’s face.

“You’re just my sweet girl,” It uttered in a mockery of Beverly’s father, “You remind me of…”

“Stop it!” Beverly screamed, pushing the  _ thing _ out of the way and running over to the window. She opened it without hesitating and dropped to the ground outside, looking back to see the creature shambling towards her. It stepped erratically, like it was being controlled by something else. Beverly ran. She could hear it going after her, calling out obscenities,  _ leering _ at her.

By the time she got into town, she seemed to have lost it. She did, however, run directly into someone. He jumped, taking off his headphones and looking down at her.

“Are you okay?” He asked, “You’re crying.”

“Need a smoke,” Beverly breathed, pushing the boy aside and finding an alleyway. The boy followed her, and she felt her hand tremble as she lit a cig.

He crossed his arms and leaned up against the opposite wall. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Beverly nodded. “Just needed to get away.”

The boy was, to put it mildly, not having it. He raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms, but he didn’t press it.

“I’m Mike.” He introduced himself politely, looking like he didn’t know what to say next. Mike was a dark skinned man with close-cropped hair and plain clothes. His shoes were muddied and stained with something that looked a little like blood.

“I’m Beverly,” Bev said, taking a drag, “I haven’t seen you around before.”

“I don’t visit that often,” Mike shrugged, “My family calls me introverted. I think they’re being polite.”

Beverly nodded. “Then what are you doing in town?”

“Delivering the cuts of lamb meat that were ready today,” Mike said, “My parents run a farm out west a little ways.”

“Oh!” Beverly smiled, “So the blood on your shoes isn’t the blood of the innocent?”

Mike looked down at his shoes. “Fuck me. I probably looked like a serial killer riding around out there.”

“It’s okay,” Bev winked, “I’ll vouch for you.”

“Thanks,” Mike laughed, “I owe you.”

“Big time,” Bev said, sucking on the last of her cig. “I should head back. They’ll miss me at school.”

Mike looked oddly relieved. “I should get back to the farm, too. See you later!”

_ Doubt it. _ “See you!”

Beverly looked back in the direction of the school. Then, she looked in the direction of the quarry, and she made her choice.

  
  
  
  


“Bevvy?” Her father asked her at dinner, “Why didn’t you go to school today?”

“I-I--” Beverly hadn’t thought of an excuse. She hadn’t thought that far ahead.

Her father reached across the table to feel her forehead. “Are you sick?”

Beverly shook her head, trying not to meet her father’s eyes. They were too cold, too grey. Too much like her own.

“You’ll always be my little girl, won’t you?” He asked. Beverly nodded. He got up and walked around to her. Beverly could feel his lips on her face. She let it happen.

She never fought back. It made her feel like a coward, letting her dad walk all over her like that. But she never fought back.

Later, after she’d scrubbed her skin raw and chain-smoked the rest of her pack of Marlboros, she went to sleep without even thinking of her book.

  
  
  
  


There was another new kid. Beverly was in the office for some reason--Some Reason named Greta Bowie--and there he was.

He was just a little taller than average, chubby, playing with a Rubix cube. Beverly watched, entranced, as he solved it in seconds, undid his work, and redid it again.

“How do you do that?” Beverly asked. He jumped a little, like he wasn’t expecting her to talk to him.

He blushed, shrugging. “Honestly? I’m not even sure. I just figured it out one day and now it’s the easiest thing in the world.”

“That’s cool!” Bev smiled, and the new kid looked like he might pass out.

He put the Rubix cube down. “I’m Ben Hanscom. You’re really pretty.”

Almost immediately, he rubbed his hands into his face, mortified. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that, I--”

“It’s okay,” Beverly smiled, “It’s nice to meet you, Ben. I’m Beverly Marsh.”

“Okay!” A counselor said, bringing out some papers, “Mr. Hanscom, the office aid will show you around the school.”

Eddie Kaspbrak came out from behind the door to the counselor’s office. Beverly had heard about him. He was a weird kid.

“Hi! I’m Eddie,” Eddie smiled, “I’m here to show you around the school.”

Ben chuckled, “Let’s get going, then!”

They set off, making small talk. Beverly didn’t have to wait long for Greta to walk out of the Principal’s office, mascara in streaks down her face and letting out melodramatic sobs. She turned to Beverly, dropping her facade long enough to glare daggers at her, and continuing back to her class--that is to say, back to the bathrooms to take a smoke break and fix her makeup.

“Miss Marsh, come to my office.” Mr. Grey was a stern-looking man, skinny, with a suit that was just a little too big for him. He was the tallest person Bev had ever seen.

“Now, Miss Bowie told me some interesting things about your involvement in her injuries.”

“She called me a retard!” Bev protested, “And a slut! She said that--”

“I don’t care what she  _ said _ ,” Mr. Grey spoke lowly, “You should not have attacked her. I’m afraid I’ll have to give you detention for this.”

Bev blanched. “Mr. Grey, I  _ can’t _ , my dad--”

“You should have thought of that before you punched her,” Mr. Grey took out a yellow slip of paper and a pen. He wrote down every detail of what happened after Beverly had taken a swing at Greta in the hallway. By the time he was done, Beverly was shaking. She didn’t know what happened--her throat felt like it was closing up.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” Mr. Grey asked, humming and tearing apart the packet. He slid a sheet of paper across his desk, keeping the copy underneath for his records.

Beverly’s face crumbled. She sobbed openly into her palms, wishing more than anything that God was real and would smite her off the face of the Earth.

“Nothing?” Mr. Grey chuckled, getting up and kneeling down next to Beverly’s chair. His broad, clammy hands reached around, rubbing Beverly’s shoulders, “It’s  _ okay _ , Miss Marsh.”

His hands wandered over Beverly’s skin. She wanted to cry harder, but made herself stop. It felt like there were so many hands. More and more, moving over her body. She wanted to vomit.

“Mr. Vermont will see you in detention.” He said, cuing Beverly to leave. She went to art class, not really in her body. She watched her hands work on her art project, an acrylic painting. It was a still-life of a soup can.

She felt hands on her for the rest of the day, cold and clammy and sweaty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2nd chapter baby! bev has got to be one of my favorite characters like, ever. i'll try to make chapters weekly. thank you for reading, leave a comment if you enjoyed it!


	3. the spaz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> richie tozier talks too much and not enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw gore, smoking, mentions of child abuse and neglect.

Richie Tozier was in detention. Again. He’d forgotten why he was even there--probably class disruption. Again. Not that he could bring himself to care, he was in detention almost every day. His parents didn’t care as long as they didn’t have to come in to talk to the principal.

Richie didn’t mind detention. For the most part, it was him and a member of Bowers’ gang (whom he did not talk to). Today, though, there was someone else. The girl he’d sat next to in Chemistry.

“Hey, beautiful,” The Bowers’ gang member (who probably had some disgusting nickname like Belch) said, “I heard you give the sloppiest head in the state--”

“So does your mom,” Richie snapped. Belch stood up, towering over Richie. Suddenly, Richie was aware that he was a little twerp in a stained jean-jacket with coke bottle glasses.

“What’d you say about my mother?” Belch asked, taking a step towards Richie.

Richie glanced over to Mr. Vermont, who was buried in a porno mag disguised as an old Nat Geo issue. He didn’t look too concerned.

“I said she’s a wonderful lady and Beverly Marsh we should get out of here.” Richie grabbed Bev’s arm, taking her out the door and into the hallways of the school.

“What’d you do that for?” Beverly asked, smacking Richie’s shoulder, “I could’ve taken him.”

“No offense,” Richie said as Belch got his bearings and started towards them, “But we should be running right now.”

Bev turned to look, nodding, and the two started sprinting towards the entrance. Richie felt his legs moving faster and faster and Beverly kept pace with him easily. Belch looked like he was gaining on them.

“I have an idea,” Richie said, trying to whisper and failing miserably, “We need to get to the woods.”

Beverly nodded, panting, and the two peeled off and headed towards the back of the school. Richie started to feel the air smart in his lungs and it almost didn’t register when he ran into something--someone--warm and solid.

“What the fuck?” Eddie Kaspbrack said, sprawled out under Richie. Richie, without thinking, picked Eddie up with him and said, “Run.”

Eddie joined their trio, the three of them running out past the locker rooms. Richie could hear Belch yelling slurs after them, and they heard the intercom calling for the three who were skipping detention. They burst through the doors and Richie wondered if he was in a movie, because it felt like everything was moving in slow-motion as their limbs flailed and their hair was wild.

They made it into the woods and Richie directed them over to a tree.

“Hurry. I’ll boost you up,” He said to Eddie, who looked like he was not having a good time. Eddie nodded, not bothering to question him.

“We are dead if he finds us,” Beverly whispered to Richie, who gave her his best duh look. Richie linked his fingers together, lifting Eddie and Beverly up in succession.

“When I find you, I’m gonna kill your little fairy asses!” Belch yelled, alarmingly close. Beverly’s fingers closed on Richie’s wrist, and he scrambled up the tree into its branches. Eddie’s lips were around his inhaler and he was sucking down medication like his life depended on it. Richie’s fingers drummed on his legs, which were drawn up to his chest.

“Did you hear that, short-shorts?” Belch screamed, almost under them. Richie’s fingers stilled on his leg--he wasn’t even sure he was breathing. Then, Eddie lost his balance. In a flurry of limbs, Bev and Richie were holding Eddie up awkwardly. Richie found his hands pressed up against Eddie’s shoulder, his hands balancing him precariously, partially on the tree and partially on Richie’s leg. The air was dead, silent and excruciating. It made Richie’s lungs ache and he waited for something to happen.

There was an inhuman scream. Something so animalistic it drew the hairs on Richie’s arm up. Then, Belch was thrown through the air, landing with a hard thump on the ground. He scrambled back, eyes wild, one shoe missing. His ankle looked… wrong. Like someone had put his foot on backwards. Richie shuddered.

Something scurried towards him, looking mangled and gnarly, like some sort of centipede that was too big and too warped to be anything Richie had ever seen before. It descended upon Belch, tearing at his skin as he screamed. It was like the worst nature documentary Richie had ever seen. It hissed and Belch screamed and sobbed and Richie watched it eat him alive.

Eddie went very pale and hunched over, just beyond Richie’s knee, and threw up. It hit the ground and the centipede-thing looked up, directly at them with the most human eyes Richie had ever seen. He thought they looked right through him.

“Pretty boys,” It hissed, “Pretty girl… don’t you want each other? Don’t worry, where I live, we all love each other. You won’t have to worry again!” It’s voice turned to something sing-song-y, taunting them. It moved over to the tree, and Richie almost cried when it started to climb.

“I know you all have a secret,” It said, jaw opening to reveal rows and rows of teeth, “You all have a dirty little secret and you won’t tell but I know!”

“I think we should be running again,” Beverly said, jumping down from the tree. Richie went next, leaving Eddie still balanced in the tree. He was shaking with the effort of holding his body up.

“You-you guys,” He stammered, tears in his eyes, “It’s so high--I’m so high up. I can’t--”

“You can, Eddie!” Beverly said, “You can! Just jump down--I’ll catch you.”

Beverly opened her arms. The centipede moved with an unnatural speed towards Eddie, drooling onto the tree. Eddie nodded, closed his eyes, and dropped.

Keeping good on her word, Beverly caught him, and the centipede looked disappointed. If it was possible for centipedes to look disappointed.

“Beverly Anne Marsh!” The centipede said, face becoming that of an older man with greying hair and steel blue eyes. Blue eyes that looked just like Beverly’s. It boomed out, “You come back here, young lady! You’ve been very naughty recently.”

Beverly blanched, and she turned to Richie and started to pull Eddie away from the tree, back to the school. “Do you guys have bikes?”

Richie nodded, and Eddie shook his head. “That’s okay. Mine has a basket,” Beverly supplied, starting to run. The centipede transformed as it ran after them. It developed a stumbling gait, like a scratched CD. It called after them horrible obscene things, and Beverly was crying, sobbing, as she ran towards their bikes. There were three still chained to the rack, and with a little spark of some emotion he couldn’t quite place, Richie realized the other one must belong to Belch.

Richie lifted Eddie up and placed him in Beverly’s basket, and the three of them set off before the creature even got close.

“I don’t--I can’t go home right now,” Beverly said as they were passing through the main road that cut through the Barrens, “Can I show you guys something?”

“My mom’s gonna kill me anyway,” Eddie shrugged, “Why not?”

Richie was, all of a sudden, willing to follow Bev to the ends of the earth. Not that he would tell her that. Eddie too, he thought. Maybe he was just lonely.

They eventually found their way to a small clearing in the forest, leaving their bikes up against some trees. They enjoyed the sun streaming through the trees, the leaves beneath their bodies. It was the last of summer, a cool breeze ruffling the leaves and they were all sitting, too close and still, Richie’s fingers twitched outwards to Bev and Eddie, who were on either side of him.

“So…” Eddie started, “I know we just like, watched a kid die or whatever, but who are you?”

The realization settled on Richie. He decided to move on. “I’m Richie.”

“Beverly Marsh,” Bev said, lighting a cigarette.

“Can I?” Richie asked, brushing Bev’s hand almost sleepily. Bev jerked her hand away a little.

“Yeah,” Bev’s hand came back. She passed Richie an unlit cigarette and her lighter. Richie thanked her and took a drag from it, coughing a little. He liked the way it made him feel, though, focused and unfocused all at once. His body didn’t need to go like it always did. He wondered if this was what normal people felt like.

Bev turned her head. “Want one, Eddie?”

Eddie scoffed. “No. Those things destroy your body. My mom showed me a picture of a lung cancer victim and said that’s what would happen to me if I ever--”

“Woah, Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie said, “That’s a little bleak.”

“Well, it’s what happens!” Eddie defended himself, “And don’t call me that. It’s not my name.”

“I know I already asked your names, but I really do want to know you,” Eddie said after a pause, “Oh god, that was probably a lot I’m sorry I--”

“No, it’s okay!” Beverly laughed, “I’m… uh… there’s not a lot to really know about me. I like art.”

“Me too,” Richie shrugged, “I’m kind of a bum. Don’t get around much.”

“I guess that makes three of us,” Eddie grinned, “My mom barely lets me leave the house.”

Richie slung his leg over Eddie’s, in a blind moment of want. The contact burned on the back of Richie’s leg and he almost lost it when Eddie sighed and moved closer.

“You’re disgusting,” Eddie said, “When was the last time you showered?”

“Dude, we just ran away from a giant centipede with a face, and you’re worried about how I smell?” Richie said, “Anyway, I’m not the one who threw up.”

Eventually, the sun began to set and they gave up on running away together. A chill blew through the trees. They went together until they couldn’t, until they were a block away from Eddie’s house.

“It’s probably for the best if I just go home alone,” Eddie said, hand on the back of his neck, “I don’t want my mom to yell at you guys too.”

Richie gave him a hug and Bev nodded to him, with an odd look on her face that might’ve been sadness. Richie watched as Eddie walked home, perfect outfit messy. Richie wondered if he was ever going to see these people again.

They went all the way to the fire escape of Beverly’s house.

“Am I ever going to see you again?” Richie asked, voice leaving his head without permission.

Beverly said, “Of course.”

“You mean it?” Richie asked, playing with the tassels on Beverly’s bike. Beverly chained it to the bike rack behind her building.

“Absolutely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like i did a shitty job of encapsulating richie's Asshole Energy but hopefully when he's not Emo in the next chapters i can make up for it.


	4. the weirdo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ben hanscom discovers a town unlike any other

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw fatphobic language, bullying, violence, mentions of death

Ben Hanscom hated himself. He did so with such a passion it was honestly concerning. And it didn’t help that he was new.

He hadn’t talked more than three words to a single soul in weeks. First it was the car ride, then the motel, then the house, then the new school. It was all so much.

He sat in the library with a notebook and a copy of Derry: A History. He made a habit of this, and it made some part of him satiated, some endless hunger for knowledge. He read the history of every town he lived in, all thirteen of them. The sundown towns, the battles, the politics. He thrived on the stories of people who had lived. Something about it made him feel more at home. And Derry was no exception.

Its history was rife with death and trauma. There was so much to learn about the town, all the murders and tragedies and massacres. Ben could feel the town come alive beneath his fingers.

He was so absorbed that he didn’t notice the people behind him, how they didn’t stir. He didn’t notice the stares. He did notice, though, a balloon float past him, right in front of his face.

He found it odd. He followed it, though, down the stairs. He found an Easter egg. Smoking.

The egg was smoking. Like the--like the--

Ben turned to see something hobbling down the stairs after him, some lifeless corpse without… a head… 

Ben ran, journal in his arms. The corpse was a man and a clown and a man again, dark and shadowy. Ben wondered if he was dreaming.

But then he went back upstairs and the library was humming with life again, as if nothing had happened. There was a kid there, thumbing through a bird-watching guide. He looked up, noticing Ben’s heavy breathing. He raised an eyebrow to him. The kid was kind of cute, if Ben had taken the time to notice in between wondering what happened and trying not to shit himself. His face was thin, and his hair fell in neatly combed curls.

“I’m okay,” Ben said, mostly to the other kid.

The kid cracked a smile. “Hi okay, I’m Stanley Uris.”

“I--I mean--I’m Ben Hanscom,” Ben said, “I’m new.”

“I figured. Haven’t seen you around,” Stan shrugged, “Not that I really notice anyway.”

There was a pause.

“You were looking at that history book, right?” Stan asked, trying to prod conversation.

Ben hummed in agreement, and Stan produced the book from his bag. Ben took it and sat in the armchair next to Stan, opening the book and starting his work again. He finished the book in remarkable time, filling his journal with interesting facts and figures. The murder/suicide ratio per capita was three times higher in Derry than in the entire rest of the United States.

At some point it dawned on Ben that he might’ve just walked into something he shouldn’t have. Something that was meant to be secret.

Ben got the feeling that not a lot of people left Derry alive.

The boy who’d shown Ben around school had been nice, but awkward. Ben didn’t judge, mostly. The fanny pack was a bit odd.

“It’s so I know I have everything,” He explained in a rushed, hyper tone, “I’ve got headphones, inhaler, epipen, pencils, pens, gum--want some gum?”

Ben accepted the gum. They walked around for a while, Eddie asking questions and answering questions and Ben not really saying much of anything. Eventually, Ben started his walk home. He didn’t know what bus to ride, and anyway, buses weren’t exactly the friendliest environment.

He paused at a bridge, looking out at the river.

“Aw, look, the fatty came to the kissing bridge!” A man crowed. Ben jumped, whirling around to see a skinny boy with greasy hair and a switchblade out. He was surrounded by two men, both looking just as wolfish as him. They looked like they were out for blood.

“I’ll give you a kiss,” The man said, directing his goons to restrain Ben by the arms while the leader took step after step towards Ben, knife glinting in the setting sunlight.

The knife dug into Ben’s stomach. It carved out an H.

“My name,” The man panted, drawing the blade across Ben’s skin, “Is Henry Bowers. You are going--to--remember--”

“Leave him alone, freaks!” A high-pitched voice called, “Or I’ll call the police!”

“What’ll they do?” Bowers scoffed, but Ben saw the tiniest hint of fear cross his eyes. Ben slipped out of the goons’ grip, running towards the voice of the kid. He ran almost blindly, hearing Bowers yell after him. He ran all the way to the bottom of the river. The kid caught up to him. He looked too small for his body, thin frame completely swamped by gigantic glasses, a jean jacket, and baggy jeans.

“This way,” He said, pulling Ben along. The sounds of Bowers’ gang faded into the distance, and eventually, the two of them were in the woods, alone.

“You okay?” The kid asked.

“Not entirely,” Ben said dryly, “I am bleeding profusely.”

“Right. Uh--I know what to do,” The kid said, looking completely out of his element. “Come with me.”

The two of them made their way to two different back doors, and Eddie and Beverly crawled out of them secretly.

“God, I’m going to get in so much trouble if my mom finds out about this,” Eddie said as they walked through the drugstore. He piled some different things into a basket. They ran into two kids while they were there, one Ben didn’t recognize and one he realized was Stan, the one from the library.

“H-h-h-hey,” The other greeted Eddie, who beamed at him. “Wh-wh-wh-what h-h-h-h-h-hap-happen-happened t-t-t-o him--him.”

“Bowers,” Eddie said grimly. They took their stuff up to the register, paying with some loose change. It was a lot of quarters.

Then, behind the alley, the six of them bandaged Ben. As it turned out, Bill--the stuttering kid--had been out buying stuff for his brother’s recovery.

“He lost his arm. They still don’t really know how,” Stan shrugged. Bill’s hand was resting on Stan’s arm.

“Okay,” Stan amended, “Well, Georgie says it was something to do with a clown that bit off his arm when he put it in the storm drain. His shrink says it’s some trauma thing and that it was probably an alligator or something.”

They patched Ben up and Bill spoke up. “M-m-m-m-my p-p-pa-paren-parents a-a-are as-as-as-asl-aslee-asleep b-b-b-b-b-by n-n-n-n-now.” It was an invitation.

So, the six headed off to Bill’s house. It was the first time Ben had ever been invited somewhere. He supposed his mom wouldn’t mind--it was a Friday night, and she was usually pretty cool about him going places. She’d just be happy he had friends.

Bill’s house was pretty cool. It was two stories, with Bill and Georgie sharing a room. Georgie, to his credit, was acting completely unaffected by the fact he was missing an arm. He bounded around the room, remaining hand flapping.

“Billy has friends!” He cried, “Billy brought friends! Friends!”

Bill laughed, easy and free. Ben was worried he was going into early-onset dementia. Suddenly, though, he thought that maybe Derry was good. He wasn’t opposed to being here.

He went home the next morning. Just like he thought, his mom wasn’t too concerned with him being gone. He was the only one who’d been able to stay the night, and after the others left, he and Bill sat on Bill’s bed and wrote notes back and forth, about Derry, and school, and everything.

Ben’s mother was, also as he predicted, over the moon that he was staying with friends. She didn’t even notice he was wearing Bill’s dad’s shirt.

Ben started documenting weird occurrences. He wrote down the experiences of the other five when they experienced something weird, something out of the ordinary.

Then, one day, he was approached by a boy with dark skin and kind eyes. “I heard you’re looking for weird stories?”

And he laid it out like facts. He’d seen hands, burned and charred, reaching through the door, calling his name. Then, as soon as they appeared, they were gone. The door was unlocked, and inside, Mike saw something swinging on a hook, like a ham waiting to be butchered. Only, they never hung live things from the hooks.

He spoke slowly, with a kind of concentration, like he was planning every word before he said it.

“When I was little, I was the only survivor of a fire,” He said, “At the Black Spot. It was a club. I was only one when it happened. I was the only one who ever walked out that night.”

Ben nodded, writing furiously. He stopped. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want to know what everyone else has said,” He explained, “After all, it’s only fair. A story for a story.”

Ben and Mike exchanged stories, and eventually, they settled on one conclusion.

“I always knew this town was different,” Mike’s eyes flickered past Ben’s, never really settling on them, “We know how. I need to know why.”

“I think I do, too,” Ben nodded, “Shake on it?”

Mike’s hands were rough, calloused, cracked. His skin met Ben’s without hesitation, though, and Ben wondered what the rest of his story was. He wondered, mostly, about whether he was lonely too.

Maybe that was the magic of the town, Ben pondered, maybe, it makes us all lonely. After all, people couldn’t stop atrocities by themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think i've finally got my writing mojo back! two chapters in one day baby!!!!! drop me a comment please i crave attention (_please_)


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